


build a ship to wreck

by subcas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Bottom Castiel (Supernatural), Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Pirates, Porn with minimal Plot, Prostitute Castiel (Supernatural), Rimming, Virgin Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-27 22:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17775527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subcas/pseuds/subcas
Summary: Captain Dean Winchester mistakes Castiel for a prostitute, and he... doesn't really mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> not a realistic depiction of anything.

When the _Impala_ came into port, Dean’s to-do list was fairly simple: a hot bath, a clean change of clothes, a good meal, and a better lay. It just so happened that he’d accomplished all but the last when he spots a good candidate to do for the last item. The man wasn’t doing anything particularly alluring, loitering in the front room of the inn—a bit awkward and out of place, really—but something about him drew Dean’s eye, and once he started looking, he couldn’t stop.

He’d been expecting to have to go out in search of someone to warm his bed for the night. This wasn’t their first time docked at this port, colors stowed, so he knew his way around the red-light district—even knew a few girls here he was pretty sure would greet him with a kiss and not a slap. Or put the kiss before the slap. Or kiss the slap better. He couldn’t say he was sorry to not have to make the rounds though. Every step he took closer to him made him more glad.

“How much?”

The man startled. “What?” He was scowling but even that couldn’t sour his face. The swell of his bottom lip made Dean feel like a man starved. His voice was a good deal deeper than Dean expected, especially with his verging-on-twinkish appearance, low and throaty instead of any sort of put-on breathy coquettishness. Some favored that. Dean liked this better.

“How much for the night?” Dean smiled his most winning smile, the one that once charmed a daughter of a jailer into slipping him the key to his shackles. He’d been told it was infallible. Of course, Sam had told him a lot more times that he was an idiot.

“Oh,” he said, “I don’t work here.” He turned towards the front. “If you want a room—” 

Dean laughed. “I already have a room.” He leaned in closer, towards the sweep of his neck, the pinked shell of his ear. His nose almost brushed against his sharp cheekbone as he whispered low and warm, “How much for you to keep me company in it for the night?” 

He watched the flush crawl down his neck and wanted to feel the warmth of it against his skin. This one can’t have been in the business too long if he can still color so easily. Even odds that pink would bloom on his chest too as he opened up around Dean’s cock, and he wanted to see it. It’s when he draws back to gauge his reaction, though, that he first gets a flash of doubt that he’s in the business at all. He looked shocked. And not in a playing coy sort of manner, as some of these boys prefer to do, but as if that was the last thing he expected to come out of Dean’s mouth. 

But his hair, someone’s dragged their fingers through it, and the sweet pink wreck of his mouth, he looks like he’s been ill-used in a back alley, the rumpled clothes of someone who’d dressed (and undressed) in a hurry, with the laces of his thin white shirt hanging loose, pulled aside to show a sliver of his firm chest... it takes careful preparation to present such a perfect template of beguiling innocence. No one looks like that much like sin by accident. Right?

“Um,” Dean said, because he’s the slickest thing on the seven seas. “I might have mis—”

“No,” he interrupted, reaching out to grab Dean’s hand. He took a short steadying breath in through his nose. “How much do you have?”

The tension in Dean’s body, readying itself to run, left at the clasp of their hands. He recocked his smile. “Someone's confident.”

“Shouldn’t I be?” The words sound boastful but the tone doesn’t and neither does the furrow in his brow.

Dean looked his full on him, an appreciative sweep of his eyes from bottom to top (and then back to... bottom). “Oh, no,” he said. “You should.” He weighted his purse in his hand before holding it out to him. “Twelve gold pieces.” The price is on the high end of fair but Dean’s never met anyone selling anything who doesn’t want to haggle over it. Except, apparently, him. He took the bag without complaint. He also doesn’t count it. Dean frowned. “That’s it?”

It’s not that he’s looking to be gouged, but they just landed a big score, Dean’s in a good mood, and he’s not completely averse to getting taken for a ride as long as he also gets taken for a _ride_. Usually ladies (and gentlemen) of negotiable affection are savvy enough to read that good mood into a higher price. He doesn’t begrudge it. It’s just good business. And it’s not as if his generosity doesn’t get returns.

He cocked his head to the side. “Is bartering part of what you want to pay for?”

“No.” Dean wasn’t sure how he’d managed to put himself in the position of arguing against his own interests. 

He nodded. “Then why waste time?”

Honestly, Dean can’t tell if this guy is weird for a prostitute or just plain weird, no matter his profession. He was starting to suspect the latter but he was also pretty sure he didn’t care. There was something ineffable about his demeanor, though not, he hoped, the rest of him. 

“What should I call you?” asked Dean.

He looked at him consideringly for a few long moments before offering, “Cas,” and no more.

“Hi, Cas. I’m Dean.” They were still, Dean was startled to realize, holding hands.

Cas favored him with a crook at the corner of his mouth. “Hello, Dean.”

—

So Dean took him up to his room, where a soft-ish bed was waiting for him, them, because now he had a warm, willing body to fill it. And christ, that sounded as close to heaven as any scoundrel like him was ever going to get.

When he turned back from locking the door, Cas was as wide-eyed as a virgin bride on her wedding night. Dean smiled in a way he hoped was more comforting than lecherous. It still felt pretty lecherous. “Don’t normally come up to the rooms?” he asked. Some didn’t. It paid more but leaving the streets meant leaving the little protection afforded by being in public. 

“Oh,” Cas said. “No.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean said. “Ellen knows me. We dock here often enough.”

Cas’s eyes took on a slightly manic gleam. “So you’re a sailor?”

Honestly, Dean was surprised at his interest. By the look of him, Dean would’ve thought the bulk of his clientele were men like him, sea dogs looking for something other then the hardscrabble men that tended to make up a ship’s crew. Sailors were tiresome, but Cas didn’t seem tired of them.

“Close enough to count,” Dean said, and figured it was barely a lie. “But no disrespect to my lady, I’ve been dreaming about a proper bed for weeks now.”

He cupped a hand against Cas’s face and ran his thumb down the soft down of his cheek. “Among other things.”

“What sort of things?” Cas asked.

“I’ll be dreaming about you from now on, darling,” Dean said, with what he thought was a healthy dose of charm.

“ _Cas_ ,” Cas said, not at all charmed.

“Darling Cas,” Dean parroted back.

He squinted somewhat testily at that but it must have passed muster because he let it pass without a further barb. He shifted his weight back and forth on his feet like he wasn’t sure where to go. Dean supposed that made sense. Alleyway encounters were much more _wham, bam, thank you, ma’am_ —or, well, _sir_ —hurried, mostly-dressed affairs. Certainly not the need to fill up the sort of idle silences they currently found themselves in with chit-chat. That was the sort of pastime for cultured courtesans, not back alley whores.

Or so Dean assumed from Cas’s utter disinterest in it. He seemed content to stare at Dean with his piercing, unrelenting gaze. He felt that he might be being measured up and, even more unsettling, was unsure of what judgement would be rendered at the end. Cas might be a good-time boy, but he wanted to give him better than good. God, he thought as he discreetly swiped his sweaty palms against his breeches, he wasn’t half as nervous flirting with the girls down at the docks as he was with a sure thing in his room.

Cas had nice hands, Dean noted absently as he trailed his own down to grab one. They were large and pleasingly masculine against the surprisingly delicate width of his wrists. His fingers were both longer and thinner than Dean’s and they looked fit for an artist, although the things he was imagining them doing were hardly artistic. Or, at least, not worthy of high culture; Dean had always preferred the low arts anyway.

When he tugged him towards the bed with their clasped hands, Cas went easy as anything.


	2. Chapter 2

Cas kissed him like he couldn’t imagine stopping, and when broke away to push him down onto the bed he drew his bottom lip in his mouth to chase the taste of Dean on it. It was flattering, even if he knew it was an act. Being good at his job was hardly something he’d hold against Cas—not when there were much better things to hold against him.

He ran greedy fingers over whatever bit of Dean was revealed as they messily pulled at each other’s clothes, and he returned the favor. Against Dean’s rough fingers, Cas’s skin felt softer than any of the finest velvet and silks he’d pulled from countless merchant ships’ plunders. That was how Cas should be dressed, silk on the silk of his skin, until Dean tore it off him. Everywhere he touched, he pressed back up into him like he couldn’t get enough.

“No,” he moaned, when Dean took away his hands. “More.”

Cas was flushed now, but it didn’t make him look innocent at all, pink-cheeked and dark-eyed, he looked more like some demon of desire. Wholly unholy, a creature plucked from Dean’s fantasies.

He rucked up his shirt, and Cas sat up and lifted his arms up obligingly to help remove it. He let them fall onto Dean’s shoulders and ran his blunt fingernails through the short hair at the nape of his neck. As soon as Dean finished pulling it off of him, he kissed him again, open-mouthed and hungry.

Every time Dean pulled away, Cas reached back out for him and every time he couldn’t resist dropping back to the sweet lure of his mouth. Finally he had to press him down into the sheets and wrench himself away. Cas panted and squirmed against the restraining outstretched hand Dean held against his chest.

“Hold on,” Dean said. “God, you’re a wild thing.”

The flush on his cheeks darkened precipitously and Cas stilled underneath him. 

“It’s good,” Dean said, stroking soothing fingers down the knobs of his ribs, “but I need some patience.”

“Apologies,” Cas said tightly.

“You haven’t done anything to apologize for,” Dean said, laughing. “You think I don’t like that you’re hot for me?” He grabbed Cas’s hand and pressed it against the swell of his erection. “I’m hot for you, too.” Cas flexed his fingers curiously and Dean makes a slightly embarrassing noise. “Come on, let me make you feel even better.”

He kissed Cas’s neck and felt the thrum of his pulse hammering beneath his skin. Well, he couldn’t fake that.

He moved down to his chest. Dean was bronze-burnished, interrupted occasionally by thin silvery scars—tally marks of disreputable behavior, but Cas was fish-belly pale and smooth all over. He smirked; Dean did dark things in the sun, and Cas did them by moonlight. A matched pair. He’d be lovely any way at all but right now some dark part of Dean shivers hungrily at contrast. For a moment, he surprises himself imagining him tan and lovely in the bright sea spray on the prow of the _Impala_ —but that was pure foolishness. 

This was only for a night and there were better ways to waste time than daydreams.

Dean bit down gently, and Cas thrashed underneath him. He smiled against the warmth of him. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” Cas said, rising onto his elbows to glower down at him. “I know you know.”

Dean licked the same spot. “Do you like that?”

“ _Dean_ , I like it all.”

Dean skimmed a hand down Cas’s stomach, feeling the shift of his muscles against him until he gets to the laces of his pants; he tugs them open and dips his fingers inside, scratching teasingly through the short hairs there for a moment before standing up. 

“Hips up,” he said, and Cas obeyed. He yanks the fabric down Cas’s thighs, and Cas settles back onto the bed, lifting his legs so Dean can finish taking them off. One tug later, and Dean’s left with Cas’s inside-out pants and the perfect image of Cas nude in his bed. He’s propped on his elbows, staring up at Dean, his legs spread. He’s flushed and hard and shameless under Dean’s eyes.

“Fuck,” he blurted out. “You should never wear clothes.”

“That wouldn’t be very practical.”

“Yeah, but it’s for the betterment of the world,” Dean said, only half a joke.

Cas rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the hint of a smile. Dean tossed aside the pants carelessly, pulled his own shirt off over his head to join them, and climbed back onto the bed. Cas didn’t move except to tilt his face up towards Dean, like he was basking in his light. This time it was Dean who couldn’t resist kissing him. Dean broke away and leaned back on his haunches.

“Okay,” he said, licking his lips. “Okay, turn over.”

Cas rolled over onto his stomach and gasped at the friction of the sheets against his cock. Dean could easily get off just watching Cas get himself off, it’s hot enough just seeing him grind forward instinctively into the pressure, watch his hips hitch back and forth. But he has some concrete goals in mind here and he’s always been a go-getter. So instead he moved forward, let himself be selfish for a moment and pressed the hard line of his dick against his ass, watches as Cas’s mouth falls open, wet and red and slack, and, _yeah_ , he’s on the right track here. 

Cas whined when Dean sat up, tried to buck back against nothing, and he stilled his hips, held him still. “I’ve got you,” Dean said. “Hands and knees.”

Cas shot a peevish look over his shoulder, but he pushes himself up.

Dean ran an appreciative hand over him as he revealed himself, then he grabbed his ass and held him open. “Are you clean?”

“What?” Cas gasped.

“Clean, you’ve cleaned recently?”

“Yes, yes. I bathed this morning.”

Dean grinned. “Lucky me.” He’d never been much good at resisting temptation. If something looked good enough to eat, why wouldn’t he? And, god, Cas looked better than good. 

When he buried his face in the space between Cas’s thighs, his entire body tensed at once, and then he let out a startled hitching moan. Dean started slow, just getting him wet without much intent, enjoying the slip of smooth skin against the stubble on his jaw. Cas is soft and warm and everything Dean’s been dreaming of in the long nights at sea alone. Everything he hasn’t had in the snatched moments of self-pleasure on board, surrounded by the stink of unwashed men. And when he goes back to that he’ll have this with him, too, a memory as sweet as sugar to bring him off. 

With each press of his tongue against his hole, Cas makes a desperate sound in his throat. His legs quiver, a sudden shudder of his thigh muscles in response to each lick inward. Dean’s not sure he knows he’s making noise and he’s not going to tell him in case it would make him stop. And when Dean begins to eat him out in earnest, fast and sloppy, a breathless _oh, oh, oh_ followed every time he worked his jaw closed.

Cas knew he’d started on his hands and knees, and intended to stay there, but at some point he’d fallen forward until he was supported by his elbows, pressing his head down into the cradle of them, his pelvis tilted to open himself to up to Dean. He thought he should feel embarrassed at how exposed he was, how eagerly he presented himself to Dean, but he didn’t feel anything but _good_. Desperately good. At some point he’d started rocking back into Dean’s tongue too, chasing the feeling of pleasure cresting on something more, although he didn’t remember when. 

When Dean pulled his head back, with a filthy wet noise, Cas was shocked at how empty he felt. He’d given him something and taken it away and Cas’s body clenched down hungrily, trying to bring it back. He knew what was to come, intellectually—despite his father’s attempts to shelter him, even he knew the concept of sex—and it both scared and excited him, but his body understood what was next as well, and it only craved it. 

“‘S alright, sweetheart,” Dean crooned, smoothing his hand down the small of his back.

“I’m Cas,” Cas muttered, down into the sheets where his head still rested.

Dean laughed and planted a kiss where his hand had been. “I didn’t forget.”

“Good,” said Cas.

“Now, Cas, sweetheart, I need you to do something for me.”

Cas lifted his head and peered at Dean blearily. “What?”

Dean stood and fetched a bottle of oil from his bags. He returned and knelt back on the bed. “I need you to hold yourself open for me.”

Cas blinked up at him. He looked half-gone behind the eyes, like he wasn’t sure he remembered how to make his limbs move anymore. His mouth was bitten red and wet and Dean had barely gotten started. If this was how he looked from just Dean’s mouth on him, he was going be wrecked by the time they were through.

“Like this,” Dean said, taking Cas’s right arm and guiding it out from under him until he was reaching back. He placed his hand on his ass. Cas grabbed it obediently. “And the other one.”

When Cas was done, his face was pressed into the bedding, head turned to the side so he could breathe, ass up in the air, hands pulling apart his cheeks and revealing himself to Dean’s gaze. The arch of his back, the openness of it all, felt obscene. He could feel his eyes on him. Like a reward, Dean pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Cas’s hole. “You’re just pretty all over,” he said. 

He slicked his thumb with oil and ran it gently over Cas’s hole. He pressed in slowly but he could barely even get to the first knuckle with how tense Cas was. “Fuck, you’re tight,” Dean said.

“Sorry,” Cas gasped out.

“I’m not,” Dean replied. “You’re going to feel so good once I’m inside.” He pressed forward to rub himself against Cas’s bare thighs.

Cas moaned as he felt precome drip from him down onto the bedding. Even Dean’s finger had felt huge pressing against the tension of his muscles, the thought of something larger seemed impossible, but he wanted what Dean was saying so badly. He wanted Dean like that, to be full of him.

“That’s right, sweet— _Cas_ ,” he pressed the tip of his thumb back in, “you’re gonna come while I open you up and then you’re gonna come again on my cock.”


End file.
